“I’m not . . .”
“This is unbelievable,” she mumbles. She pulls on her pants, then slips her top over her head, leaving her bra and panties off.
I don’t try and stop her. If I am going to walk around the city with Brooke without an erection, she’s going to need to be clothed.
Of course, knowing she’s wearing nothing underneath those fucking pants could cause a bit of an issue. And her nipples . . . God, this might be torture.
Her hand turns the doorknob. “Thanks for the class. It was surprisingly fun.” She storms out into my living space, leaving me behind.
“Hold up a second. Let me get dressed.”
I head for my dresser, still pressing the towel against my cock. Brooke takes to the stairs without looking back at me.
“Brooke!”
She disappears to the first level.
“Fuck.” I don’t bother drying off. Grabbing a pair of boxers, I tug them on, then pull some shorts out of the drawer. Water drips down my face to my neck. I wipe it from my eyes.
She’s not waiting for me. She doesn’t want to go for a walk and let me find out about her. She feels rejected, which is entirely my fault. But with Brooke . . . even if I give in and fuck her for the sake of fucking her, I’ll feel like the biggest tosser on the planet. Sure, it’ll probably be one of the hottest romps of my life, maybe even the hottest, but then it’ll be over. She clearly won’t want anything else to do with me.
“I’ll even wave to you if I see you out.”
Wave to me? Fuck that. I want a lot more than a bloody wave from her.
My feet beat against the wood as I dash down the stairs, only to step out into an empty studio. I swing the door open and move outside, hoping to catch Brooke, but the footpath is quiet. A street lamp flickers in the distance as I dart my eyes left, then right. The bakery is dark across the narrow street that separates my business from hers.
I push a hand through my wet hair. Frustration burns the back of my throat.
I refused her.
I refused the knockout I can’t stop thinking about.
I drop my head back and stare up at the stars. My groin throbs.
Blue balls? Can’t be all that bad, can it?
Blue balls are, in fact, the worst fucking thing I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Brooke might as well have taken a jackhammer to my nuts before she stormed out. I feel ready to explode. My legs barely get me up the stairs before I’m whipping my dick out and squeezing it roughly.
The pain is indescribable. The urge to fuck burns like a wild-fire in my veins.
Even as I move my hand over my dick in the silence of my loft, frantically chasing my orgasm, I’m getting no relief. Everything is so sensitive. I squeeze harder, stroke faster. It hurts to do this. It hurts not to. I want to scream.
I need to come. Goddamn, I need to come.
I’m sure I could wait this out. It can’t stay like this, can it?
That unnerving fear has me reaching down and cupping my balls with my free hand. I roll them between my palm. My thoughts race to Brooke standing outside my shower, leaning against the wall, pressed against the wall. Her tits, her arse, her smooth pussy I want to nuzzle with my mouth.
My breath hitches. Fuck! Finally!
With a strangled groan, I come all over my hand and stomach. The ache between my thighs dissipates.
A familiar satisfaction settles over me, but will it last? Will I ever be truly satisfied until I have Brooke in the ways I want to have her? Which includes every filthy act of depravity I can think of.
I sag against the mattress as I reach for my discarded towel from earlier and wipe myself clean.
My eyes close. I listen to the beginnings of a storm in the distance. The low rumble of thunder.
I hope she isn’t walking home.
Sleep evades me most of the night as my mind refuses to settle. My body is spent from class, from my orgasm, but I’m restless. My cock slowly grows hard against the sheets. I ignore it and roll over, rubbing it into the mattress.
The morning sun rises too early. Light burns across my eyelids, and I make a mental note to pick up curtains or some shit to keep my room dark when I need it. I hope to God this isn’t any indication how every sexual encounter involving Brooke, fantasy or not, leaves me.
I’m not going to be able to teach six classes a day if I’m up half the night.
Coffee. I need a fuckton of coffee.
I get dressed and head outside, pulling on my sunnies. The footpath is wet from last night’s rain, and the air is a bit sticky. I avoid the puddles as I head south on Fayette, my eyes glancing back in the direction of the bakery until I can no longer see it clearly. A little shop on the corner across the street grabs my attention, and I jog between cars and step up onto the curb.
I pull the door open and step inside, inhaling a lungful of the delicious scent.